


on falling

by soulofme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hades and Persephone Mythology Fusion, Florist Keith (Voltron), Hades Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Modern Era, Persephone Keith (Voltron), Writer Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 13:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17060345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: The god of the underworld is not meant to love.





	on falling

His name is Keith, and he is Krolia’s son. She is Mother Earth personified, thriving even as the humans tarnish her planet. He is the product of a human and a god, an existence rather common among their kind.

Shiro himself has no children, for the irony of it would not be lost on him. God of death, bringing life into the world.

Still, when he watches Krolia’s son, something like longing fills him.

He takes care to squash the feeling dead.

 

 

 

 

 

The evolution of man brings about the evolution of the gods. He lacks the formal education humans hold so dearly, and instead spends his time writing books. He settles in various cafes in the sleepy little town he lives in when not in the heavens, urging the words in his head to flow onto paper.

And then, after, he stands outside the flower shop three blocks from his apartment and watches the boy who never gives him so much as a glance.

But on the rare occasion that their eyes do meet, a look of curiosity crosses Keith’s face. It tears something inside Shiro apart, and he spends many days wondering just what it is.

 

 

 

 

“You’ve been watching me.”

The god of life has a frown on his pretty face, expression fierce and voice pitched low. He leans forward, across the table, so that he and Shiro are forced to breathe the same air.

Shiro murmurs, “Have I?”

Keith doesn’t look so amused. He leans away, expression conflicted, and drums lithe fingers against the table.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Shiro says, for the god of death has no business dealing with something like _desire_.

That night, Shiro writes about beauty, about a rose in bloom, vibrant red and full of life. He writes about ugliness, of a rose with wilted, blackened petals, of death gripping tight and never letting go.

 

 

 

 

 

“You look ill, brother,” Lance remarks, a wicked grin on his youthful face. The god of water smells of summer, of a hot beach and the salty tang of the ocean.

Shiro wrinkles his nose at it, wondering if he smells like ash, or the desperation of departed souls, eager to return to their former lives, disgusted with their current circumstances.

“What troubles you?” Lance continues, sipping languidly at his drink.

Of all the things humans have created, Shiro muses, alcohol is a favorite of the gods. Though unable to get drunk off it, they are certainly able to appreciate the way it turns one’s bones to liquid, removes their inhibition and frees the soul.

“Have you felt love?” he asks, though the question seems foolish once Lance begins to laugh.

“We’re gods,” he says, as if Shiro has forgotten. “We’re not meant to feel something so trivial.”

Trivial.

Is that all love is?

 

 

 

 

 

Keith is smiling gently at a customer, patiently explaining what flowers he thinks will look best in a bouquet.

“You always have the prettiest flowers,” the customer exclaims, voice full of wonder. “Even in the winter. How?”

Keith winks at her. “It’s a secret.”

He presses a finger over his lips and the customer laughs before taking her bouquet with her as she leaves. She nearly bumps into Shiro on the way out, and murmurs a rushed apology before continuing on.

Shiro opens the door, the bell above it signaling his arrival.

“Are you going to buy something?” Keith asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Heat swirls in Shiro’s gut, and he has to force his reply around the lump in his throat.

“No,” he says.

The god of death cannot buy life, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

The god of spring finds him on a crisp April afternoon. He smells of the flowers he surrounds himself with, of the fresh rain that had brought about new growth.

He lingers awkwardly in front of Shiro’s apartment, a guarded expression on his face. Something like relief flickers in his eyes when the door squeaks open.

“Is it me you want?” Keith asks.

“You have much to offer,” he says, even as his whole being aches for him, “don’t waste it on me.”

Keith laughs, loud and rich.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you love him?”

It is the god of love who approaches him, though there is no knowing twinkle in his eye. His expression is downcast, as if he fears Shiro’s answer.

“We’re not meant to feel something so trivial,” he says, though the reply sounds forced to his ears.

Hunk appears disappointed, then, a frown marring his gentle features.

“There is nothing trivial about something so beautiful,” he says, a touch defensive, and Shiro snorts derisively.

“I know nothing of beauty," he says, and turns his back before he can see the pity in Hunk's eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

The grain shrivels on the day Krolia finds out about his intentions towards her son.

Had she been a different goddess, perhaps she would have caused the skies to thunder, or set the world ablaze. Shiro supposes he’s lucky that such talents exceed Krolia’s range of expertise.

“You wish to have him?” she asks him, sounding as if she’s never heard something more absurd in her life.

“If you will permit me,” Shiro replies, rousing a startled laugh from her.

“I was not aware gods knew how to ask for what they want,” she says, though her voice is free of judgement. “How are you sure you won’t harm him?”

“I’m not,” he says.

She seems oddly pleased by his answer.

 

 

 

 

 

“Mother says you’re an honest man.”

“And you?” Shiro murmurs, daring to touch the unblemished skin that stretches before him. “What do you think of me?”

Red lips curl into a coy smile.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Keith replies, dark hair spilling like ink across Shiro’s pillow. “But perhaps you’re not nearly as horrible as you make yourself seem.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy to the point where Shiro wonders if they’re weighing him down. Keith shifts against the sheets, lithe fingers reaching for Shiro, cupping him beneath the jaw and pulling him into a soft kiss.

 _Wrong,_ Shiro thinks, even as his hands roam across Keith’s body, _for the god of the underworld is not meant to love._

“You don’t think you deserve him.”

There is a reason she is the goddess of wisdom, but that doesn’t mean that Pidge's words don’t thoroughly annoy him. Shiro gives her a weary glance, watching as she pops a grape casually into her mouth. She has taken the appearance of a teenager, barely into puberty, and her apparent youth makes it difficult for him to stay mad at her for long. A conscious choice on her part, he’s sure.

“You disagree?”

“Greatly,” she says, offering no further explanation.

It leaves him nothing short of frustrated.

 

 

 

 

 

“Have I trapped you?”

“Had you,” Keith starts, resting further against Shiro’s chest, allowing the warm water to encircle them like a soft embrace. “I would have fought to be freed.”

“You haven’t answered the question,” Shiro says, partly irritated, and he jerks away when Keith flicks water at his face.

“I chose you,” Keith says, fingers idly playing with Shiro’s. “I believe that’s answer enough.”

 

 

 

 

 

Shiro writes about a wolf and a lamb. The lamb, picture of innocence, purity in every way, is not meant to meet the wolf. The wolf, vicious, blood-thirsty, is innately trained to slaughter the lamb. But through pure will, the wolf represses such an animalistic urge.

It spends its days with the lamb, softens to the point where harming such a creature physically pains it. The lamb is able to change the unchangeable, and the wolf is forever indebted to it.

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you not afraid?”

Keith looks away from the spirits that stand before them, away from the darkness, and away from the blue flames that flicker in torches mounted to the wall.

“There is nothing to fear,” he says, sounding so sure of himself.

Shiro bares his teeth, the ground rumbling beneath his feet as he does.

“Not even me?”

“No,” Keith answers, decisive, stepping forward to press their foreheads together. “ _Especially_ not you.”

 

 

 

 

 

“He has weakened you,” the king of the gods sneers, expression twisted into a grotesque display of anger. “You have softened. How are you ignorant to that?”

“You’re wrong,” Shiro murmurs, ignoring the irritated quirk of Zarkon’s mouth. “He has strengthened me.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you happy with me?”

He watches as the god of spring runs his fingers over the brittle grass beside them, turning it lush and green as it fills with life. He doesn’t dare brush the grass with his own hands, afraid that it’ll blacken and crumble like ash beneath his touch.

“Are you?” Keith asks, twisting to face him.

“Yes,” he answers, cupping his face, thumb spreading across the warm skin beneath.

Keith’s expression is soft, grin smug and blinding, as if he dares to rival the sun, and it is then that the god of death recognizes what beauty is.

 

 

 

 

 

“Do you love him?” the god of love asks him again.

Hunk leans forward expectantly. Shiro breathes in, and the air is sweetened by the scent of spring.

“With all that I am,” he says, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face.


End file.
